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PICTURES  BY 
GEORGE  ERED- 
ERIGK  WATTS 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2016 


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https://archive.org/details/picturesbygeorgeOOwatt 


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Copyright  1904  by 
Fox,  Duffield  & Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
Published  September  1 904 


Press  of  The  J.  W.  Pratt  Company 
New  York,  N.  Y. 


THE  GETTY  CENTER 

library 


TABLE  of  CONTENTS 


LOVE  AND  LIFE 

LOVE  TRIUMPHANT 

TIME,  DEATH  AND  JUDGMENT 

UNA  AND  THE  RED  CROSS  KNIGHT 

LOVE  AND  DEATH 

HOPE 

THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 
THE  THREE  GODDESSES 
IRIS 

EVE  REPENTANT 
SUMMER  DAWN 
ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 
ARIADNE 

LITTLE  RED  RIDING-HOOD 
A BACCHANAL 
SIR  GALAHAD 
OPHELIA 

THE  RIDER  ON  THE  WHITE  HORSE 
DEATH  CROWNING  INNOCENCE 
PAOLO  AND  FRANCESCA 
“FOR  HE  HAD  GREAT  POSSESSIONS 
DIANA  AND  ENDYMION 


Mrs.  Browning 
Swinburne 
Ecclesiastes 
Edmund  Spenser 
Margaret  Deland 
Shelley 
Robert  Browning 
Tennyson 
Flaccus 
Lionel  Johnson 
William  Morris 
Robert  Browning 
Charles  Lamb 
Old  Myth 
John  Keats 
Tennyson 
Shakespeare 
Revelations 
Whitman 
Dante 
St.  Mark 
Fletcher 


DAPHNE 


K.  Vernon 


LOVE  AND  LIFE 


T OVE  came  by,  and  having  known  her 
In  a dream  of  fabled  lands, 

Gently  stooped,  and  laid  upon  her 
Mystic  chrism  of  holy  hands ; 

So,  when  Life  looked  upward,  being 

Warmed  and  breathed  on  from  above. 
What  sight  could  she  have  for  seeing. 
Evermore  . . . but  only  Love? 


INTRODUCTION 


Some  Aspects  of  Mr.  Watts’  Paintings 

“When  a man  is  born  with  a profound  moral  sentiment,  preferring  truth,  justice,  and  the  serving  of  all  men 
to  any  honors  or  any  gain,  men  readily  feel  the  superiority.” — Emerson. 


The  place  that  George  Erederick  Watts  holds 
among  the  great  painters  of  the  ancient  and 
modern  world  is  each  day  growing  more  secure. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he  is,  at  this  dawning  of 
the  twentieth  century,  among  the  foremost  of  England’s 
artists,  and  one  whose  work  is  destined  to  endure.  His 
high  rank  rests  not  alone  upon  his  technical  skill,  nor 
upon  his  immense  range  of  subjects,  nor  upon  his  superb 
handling  of  colors.  It  rests  chiefly  upon  his  exalted 
imagination,  and  upon  the  impression  in  his  pictures  of 
the  highest  thoughts  of  the  human  spirit.  His  is  a 
master  mind.  Watts  is  not  simply  a painter;  he  is  a 
teacher- — a prophet,  if  you  like — one  of  far-sighted 
vision,  and  without  dogma  of  creed. 

Mr.  Watts’  art  represents  no  one  section  of  the 
English  school.  The  time  was  ripe  for  a revolt  from 
hollow  traditions,  as  expressed  in  the  work  of  the  first 
quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  Mr.  Watts, 
though  not,  properly  speaking,  a leader  of  revolt,  was 
an  exponent  of  the  spirit  of  the  time.  He  was  not  a 
preraphaelite,  but  a forerunner  of  the  preraphaelites, 
the  first  English  painter  to  break  boldly  away  from  old 
traditions  of  art,  in  which  genuine  feeling  was  stifled 
and  smothered.  The  preraphaelites,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  not  disciples  of  Mr.  Watts,  though  they  felt  an 
impulse  like  unto  his.  The  movement  was  as  inevitable  as  is  the  evolution  of  individual  or  nation. 

George  Frederick  Watts  was  born  February  23,  1817,  in  London,  his  parents  being  of  Celtic  origin.  He  de- 
cided when  still  very  young  to  devote  his  life  to  art,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty,  in  1837,  he  exhibited  his  first  picture 
at  the  Academy.  Five  years  later  he  won  a prize  of  three  hundred  pounds,  and  with  these  funds  was  enabled  to 
realize  his  plan  of  visiting  Paris,  the  stepping-stone  to  Italy,  which  was  to  become  the  scene  of  his  chief  inspiration, 
and  the  best  of  his  early  work. 

Lord  Holland,  at  that  time  British  Ambassador  at  Florence,  gave  a hearty  welcome  to  Watts,  and  proved  so 
good  a friend  and  so  generous  a patron  that  the  young  painter  was  able  to  stay  there  four  years,  painting  portraits 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Holland,  and  many  of  their  distinguished  guests.  The  effect  of  such  encouragement  and  help 
at  the  outset  of  his  career  was  invaluable.  His  long  cherished  dream  of  seeing  Italy  was  taking  shape  beyond  his 
hopes,  surrounded,  as  he  was,  by  the  richest  Italian  influences  and  atmosphere,  now  at  Lord  Holland’s  Florentine 
house,  Casa  Ferroni;  now  at  his  villa  of  Coreggi,  famous  in  the  history  of  the  Medici.  It  was  during  this  golden 
period  of  his  Italian  visit  that  his  ideas  became  so  impregnated  with  the  Venetian  coloring  that  grew  later  to  be  an 
integral  part  of  his  art  and  of  himself.  Watts  was  always  self-taught,  independent  of  human  teachers.  His 
real  teachers,  as  he  has  often  said,  were  the  Elgin  marbles,  the  source  of  the  inspiration  in  many  of  his  pictures — 
such  as  the  graceful  and  pathetic  “Ariadne”  with  the  two  leopards.  The  drapery  in  his  well-known  “Hope,” 
and  in  the  “Bacchanal,”  suggests  the  same  influence. 

Mr.  Watts,  in  truth,  began  his  career  with  ideas  and  standards  into  which  material  considerations  never  en- 
tered. This  fact  is  apparent  in  his  method  of  work,  in  his  paintings,  and  in  the  man  himself.  His  own  per- 
sonality was  singularly  striking,  yet  simple,  and  he  had  the  devotion  of  all  who  knew  him.  His  own  words  give  a 


good  idea  of  his  serious  aim  in  art:  “The  fine  arts  are  only  to  be  exercised  in  a solemn  manner,  and  for  conspicuously 
serious  purposes.  All  that  is  beautiful  and  graceful  appertains  to  poetry,  art  and  music,  and  will  overlap  lines  of 
limitation;  they  cannot  be  restricted  in  their  utterances;  at  their  noblest,  they  are  aids  to  what  is  highest  in  man’s 
nature,  but  below  this  exalted  range  they  may  well  be  exercised  to  cheer  or  simply  to  amuse.” 

So  serious  were  Mr.  Watts’  purposes  and  aims  that  it  is  impossible,  in  any  appreciation  of  his  work,  to  approach 
it  in  any  but  a serious  way.  And  that  aspect  of  his  work  which  is  ever  fresh  and  vigorous,  and  which  is  daily  com- 
pelling a wider  admiration,  is  the  new  religion,  as  it  might  be  called,  of  Love  and  Life;  new,  that  is,  as  applied  to 
imaginative  work  in  art.  The  painters  of  the  early  Christian  era  were  religious  in  thought  and  largely  symbolic.  But 
in  their  time  symbolism  was  of  a crude  and  simple  kind;  the  cross,  the  dove,  the  lamb,  stood  with  them  for  exact 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


spiritual  equivalents.  Mr.  Watts’  work  is  of  a different  order.  He  has  usually  avoided  traditional  symbols.  As 
Mr.  William  Butler  Yeats  truly  says,  “True  art  is  expressive  and  symbolic,  and  makes  every  form,  every  sound, 
every  color,  every  gesture,  a signature  of  some  unanalyzable  imaginative  essence.  False  art  is  not  expressive,  but 
mimetic.”  Watts  was  a true  artist,  both  poet  and  teacher,  and  rendered  into  imaginative  form  the  most  exalted 
human  love — the  clearest  vision  of  human  life.  The  eternal  truths  which  he  paints  are  of  the  same  sort  as  the  ideas 
that  come  to  us  in  modern  poetry,  especially  from  Browning  and  Whitman;  while  Emerson,  too,  had  this 
same  religious  idea  of  Love  and  Life.  Lines  and  motives  from  these  poets  live  anew  for  us  as  we  gaze  at  Mr. 
Watts’  work. 

Religion  and  art  are  so  closely  connected  that  a review  of  the  development  of  great  art  would  seem  also  to  be 


a record  of  past  spiritual  expression.  The  ancient  nations  are  best  known  to  us  through  the  enduring  monuments 
of  their  art,  but  these  concrete  expressions  are  also  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  great  spiritual  yearnings.  As 
the  masterpieces  of  Greek  art  were  the  outcome  of  religion,  as  Pallas  Athene  was  sacred  to  Phidias,  as  the  Madonna 
was  worshipped  by  early  Italian  painters,  so  is  the  Christ  in  man  reverenced  by  this  great  modern  artist.  He 
paints  the  spirit  of  Christ  in  man  and  woman.  Mr.  Claude  Phillips  singles  him  out  as  one  of  the  “exponents  of 
the  human-divine  in  humanity  as  it  is.”  And  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  Mr.  Watts’  are  the  only  easel  paintings 
which  to  our  knowledge  are  hung  in  Protestant  churches. 

“Love  Triumphant”  and  “Love  and  Life”  are  the  two  symbolic  paintings  which  best  illustrate  Mr.  Watts’ 
idea  that  Love  is  the  principle  of  life  and  of  true  religion.  Emerson  also  felt  this  when  he  said : “We  learn 


JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY. 

nothing  rightly  until  we  learn  the  symbolic  character  of  Life.”  “Love  and  Life,”  Mr.  Watts  admits,  is  his  favorite 
creation.  As  he  says : “I  have  expressed  my  idea  perhaps  best  in  this  picture,  because  the  meaning  is  of  the  sim- 
plest; that  love — by  which,  of  course,  I mean  not  physical  passion,  but  altruism,  tenderness — leads  to  the 
highest  life.” 

Some  one  has  said  that  only  he  who  knows  Life  can  hope  to  comprehend  Death.  This  is  a truth  wisely  spoken, 
and  applies  with  perfect  force  to  Watts.  For,  as  in  his  remarkable  portraits,  he  shows  his  knowledge  of 
the  inner  man  and  of  Life,  so  in  his  imaginative  pictures  has  he  developed  that  same  wondrously  compre- 
hensive thought  of  Death.  He  has  depicted  Death  in  many  forms,  and  his  conception  of  it  is  noble  and  comforting. 
Death  is  not  the  dread  reaper — the  cruel  invader.  With  Watts,  Death  is  the  great  comforter — the  tender  con- 


soler,  and  the  bearer  of  solace  and  rest.  He  would  have  us  believe  that  Death  comes  to  heal  the  wounded  and 
broken  life — to  make  it  whole  and  bring  it  to  completion.  What  stricken  mother  can  fail  to  read  comfort  for  her 
grief  in  “Death  Crowning  Innocence,”  a picture  full  of  the  tenderest  feeling?  Death  is  depicted  as  a sweet-faced 
woman,  cherishing  in  her  lap  and  arms  Innocence,  a sleeping  infant,  and  gently  placing  upon  its  brow  the  crown  that 
brings  surcease  to  the  cares  and  pains  of  the  world. 

As  an  American,  I had  so  long  admired  Mr.  Watts’  paintings,  that  I felt  it  a great  privilege  to  meet  and 
talk  with  him  at  his  London  home.  This  and  his  picture  gallery — “Little  Holland  House” — are  in  West  Ken- 
sington, opposite  the  celebrated  Holland  House,  the  home  of  his  earliest  patron.  One  enters  first  into  a 
gallery  hung  with  many  pictures,  some  hundred  and  fifty  in  all,  and  passing  among  these  gains  a spacious  hall  with  a 
winding  staircase.  Opposite  is  a large  leaded  window  reaching  from  the  ceiling  to  the  window-seat ; the  whole  color  effect 
being  green,  reflecting  the  green  trees  and  grass  outside.  On  the  day  of  my  visit,  the  softened  light  of  a September 
London  haze  streamed  through  this  window.  At  the  top  of  the  staircase  the  maid  opened  the  door  of  the  studio — a 
large,  light  room;  and  in  the  center  stood  Mr.  Watts — delicate,  erect,  for  such  an  elderly  man.  Taking  a few  steps 
forward,  he  bowed  in  the  most  courtly  manner.  His  hair,  moustache,  and  short  beard  were  very  white.  His  face 
was  finely  cut,  and  strong  in  outline,  with  eyes  of  clear  blue-gray.  He  wore  his  now  familiar  cap  of  brown  velvet. 
A soft  jacket  hung  loosely  from  his  shoulders,  narrowly  disclosing  a brown  waistcoat,  figured  in  sombre  yellow. 

After  our  greetings  were  over,  I mentioned  that  all  Americans  owed  Mr.  Watts  a debt  of  gratitude  for  the 
portraits  that  he  had  given  to  the  world,  and  that  we  were  especially  glad  and  obliged  for  his  Browning,  Rossetti, 
Alorris,  Meredith,  and  Motley.  “Motley,”  repeated  Mr.  Watts.  “Oh,  yes,  you  would  be  interested  in  him;  he 
was  a compatriot  of  yours,  and  a good  writer.”  I answered  that  we  were  bold  enough  to  claim  the  others,  too,  as 
compatriots. 

“Why  not?”  said  he.  “We  are  all  of  one  family.  It  was  through  the  interest  and  persuasion  of  an  American 
woman  that  I first  sent  my  pictures  to  America.” 

In  1 88^  Mr.  Watts’  pictures  had  been  exhibited  in  New  York  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  During  the  six 
months  of  the  exhibition,  over  half  a million  persons  visited  the  gallery,  and  an  urgent  request  was  made  to  allow 
the  pictures  to  remain  another  six  months.  In  talking  with  Mr.  Watts  of  this  American  exhibition,  I spoke  par- 
ticularly of  “Love  and  Death.”  He  seemed  interested  in  this,  and  said:  “Probably  that  is  my  most  popular 

painting.” 

Among  all  the  paintings  grouped  on  the  walls,  one — then  not  quite  finished,  but  since  widely  known — stood  out 
prominently — “Love  Triumphant.”  Mr.  Watts  interpreted  with  marked  interest  the  symbolic  meaning  of  this 
picture.  Two  prostrate  forms — male  and  female — lay  in  the  foreground.  The  background  represented  a great 
stretch  of  dismal,  dreary  waste.  Rising,  above  the  two  figures,  and  occupying  the  greater  part  of  the  picture, 
was  a partly  nude  male  figure,  with  uplifted  hands  and  outspread  wings.  Pointing  to  the  two  recumbent  figures, 
Mr.  Watts  said:  “These  tv/o.  Life  and  Death — the  mother,  perhaps,  of  new  life — have  traveled  through  the  ages 
together.  Life  has  known  all  experiences;  the  dreary  waste,  the  dead  level  of  the  desert,  is  past.  The  end  of  the 
struggle  is  here — but  Love  still  lives.” 

It  was  stirring,  indeed,  to  gaze  with  the  painter  himself  at  this  radiant,  soaring,  deathless  figure  of  Love — 
strongly  m.ounting,  conquering,  triumphant! 

There  was  a picture  near  the  window  upon  which  Mr.  Watts  was  evidently  working  before  I entered;  another 
was  on  an  easel  in  front  of  me;  all  the  walls  were  covered  with  paintings.  In  making  some  reference  to  these 
pictures,  I asked  Mr.  Watts  if  he  knew  Walt  Whitman,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  each  in  his  own  way — the  painter 
and  the  poet — had  been  working  out  similar  conceptions. 

“You  have  painted  Death  in  your  pictures  as  Whitman  describes  it  in  his  books,”  I said,  and  quoted: 

“Dark  mother,  always  gliding  near,  with  soft  feet, 

H ave  none  chanted  for  thee  a chant  of  fullest  welcome?” 

To  this  Mr.  Watts  replied:  “I  don’t  know  Whitman’s  works  well — I know  the  spirit  of  the  man.  He  was 

one  who  bravely  threw  away  all  tradition  and  defied  custom.  Not  many  of  us  can  do  it;  unconsciously  we  follow 
the  steps  of  our  predecessors.  I have  tried,”  he  went  on,  “to  portray  Death  not  as  terrifying;  it  should  not  be 
frightful.”  Then  he  stopped,  and  pointing  to  his  picture  of  “Death  on  the  White  Horse,”  said:  “Death  comes  in 
many  ways,”  as  if  to  imply  that  this  was  an  exception  to  his  usual  ideas  of  Death. 

“But,”  he  added,  “I  think  of  Death  as  a kind  nurse;  that  is  why  I painted  Death  as  a woman  in  ‘Love  and 
Death,’  Death  almost  overshadowing  Love,  but  not  quite — they  are  inseparable.” 


WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


We  looked  at  the  pictures  a few  moments  more  without  speaking,  and  then  I turned  to  say  good-by.  I recall 
Mr.  Watts’  prophetic  words  In  parting:  “England  Is  the  greatest  country  for  art  just  now,”  he  said.  “America 

will  be  the  next  great  nation  In  art  In  the  time  that  is  to  come.” 

Mr.  Watts  shook  hands  gently,  letting  his  fingers  rest  for  a moment  on  my  arm,  and  saying:  “Give  my  love  to 
America.”  I turned  to  take  a last  look  of  him  as  I left  the  studio.  He  had  his  brush  In  one  hand,  his  palette  In  the 
other — already  absorbed  in  his  work. 

To  some  natures.  Watts’  purely  imaginative  pictures  seem  too  subtle  and  obscure;  and  by  such  admirers 
of  his  talent  it  Is  certain  that  his  portraits  will  be  regarded  as  his  soundest  and  most  admirable  work.  To  quote 
Claude  Phillips  again:  “No  master  of  the  century  has  painted  so  great  a gallery  of  portraits,  has  created  and  Inter- 
preted anew  for  the  world  so  many  noble  men  and  gracious  women,  as  Watts;  and  I venture  to  say  this,  bearing  in 
mind  the  achievements  of  David,  Ingres,  Franz  Von  Lenbach,  Elie-Delaunay,  Bonnat,  John  Everett  Millais,  and 
J.  S.  Sargent.  Physical  vitality — the  actual  moment  of  being,  of  volition — these  things  have  been  much  better  repre- 
sented by  others.  But  the  entire  man — his  past,  present,  and  future,  enveloped  by  the  painter  in  the  glow  of 
brotherly  love  and  sympathy — this  thing  has  never  been  given  in  art  since  the  great  Venetian  painter  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  since  Rembrandt  painted  in  the  seventeenth.” 

These  portraits  by  Mr.  Watts  include  a long  list  of  England’s  statesmen,  poets,  artists,  and  men  of  letters, 
with  now  and  then  a face  of  another  nationality.  One  never  remarks  the  epoch  nor  the  dress,  nor  the  pose.  What 
one  has  learned  to  seek,  and  never  fails  to  find,  is  the  Inner  character  of  the  subject,  showing  through  the  canvas 
and  colors.  Mr.  Watts  seems  to  have  been  born  with  the  keen  Intuition  to  see  and  read  deep  into  a man’s  soul;  to 
lift  the  mask  from  off  the  face,  and  show  forth  upon  it  the  real  character  of  the  man  himself.  As  some  one,  writing 
of  Mr.  Watts’  portraits,  has  said,  “He  does  not  copy  men — he  re-creates  them.” 

Most  wonderful  are  the  eyes  In  these  portraits.  They  are  different,  and  in  each  so  clearly  the  mirror  of  the 
mind!  Compare  the  calm,  dispassionate  eye  of  John  Tothrop  Motley,  the  American  historian  and  statesman,  with 
the  eyes  of  the  poet,  Swinburne,  large  and  dreamy;  or  with  those  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  filled  with  earnest- 
ness and  imagination;  or  again  with  those  of  George  AleredIth — kindly  but  subtle,  analytical,  and  peering  into  the 
future. 

We  feel,  in  looking  at  the  long  line  of  portraits  in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  the  strong  personality  of 
each  man,  and  we  know  Intuitively  that  the  painter  has  himself  known  and  caught  the  spirit  of  each.  It  Is  interesting 
to  know  of  Mr.  Watts’  own  admiration  for  the  portrait  of  Julius  the  Second  by  Raphael:  “A  portrait  is  the  most 

truly  historical  picture,”  he  says,  “and  this  Is  the  most  monumental  and  historical  of  portraits.  The  longer  one 
looks  at  It,  the  more  It  demands  attention.” 

It  Is  important  to  mention  that  some  of  Mr.  Watts’  best  portraits  during  his  early  period  are  to  be  found  in  the 
famous  Holland  House  in  London.  Many  of  these  are  pencil  sketches,  done  by  candle-light,  of  the  most  Interest- 
ing members  of  Florentine  society  at  the  time  v/hen  Mr.  Watts  was  a guest  at  the  British  Legation.  They  include 
the  American  Livingstone;  Madame  de  Flahaut,  a study  remarkable  for  delicacy  of  treatment;  and  Dr.  Playfair, 
the  finest  in  the  collection.  Among  the  oils  are  to  be  found  a portrait  of  Watts  by  himself;  a charming  picture  of 
the  child.  Miss  Mary  Fox,  afterwards  Princess  Lichtenstein;  also  portraits  of  Guizot,  Thiers,  and  Lucien  Bona- 
parte; and  one  of  Lady  Holland,  a remarkable  piece  of  work  for  a painter  so  young  as  Watts  then  was. 

I have  already  mentioned  that  Air.  Watts  had  his  own  and  very  definite  Ideas  on  art.  In  regard  to  the  aim 
of  art,  he  says:  “No  one  questions  the  mission  of  poetry  to  elevate  and  even  instruct  while  delighting,  but  for  want 

in  modern  times  of  association  with  religious  and  political  life.  It  has  come  to  be  believed,  and  even  asserted,  that 
art  should  be  nothing  but  a mere  ornamental  fringe  on  the  social  garment— should  have  no  claim  to  honor  beyond 
what  is  due  to  dexterity.  I think  that  there  Is  a tendency  nowadays  to  give  undue  praise  to  obvious  dexterity,  im- 
plying thereby  that  a picture  should  appear  to  have  been  produced  without  any  trouble.  Nature  never  works  In  this 
way;  and  to  make  it  appear  that  in  imitation  of  her  fullness  and  loveliness  no  heart-breaking  pains  have  been 
taken,  is  to  treat  her  with  irreverence  to  grieve  over.  An  age  of  competition  must  be  an  age  of  rapid  results  and 
brilliant  effects;  In  art  striking  appeals  to  the  perceptive  side  of  memory,  of  incidents,  and  peculiarities,  rather  than 
to  those  influences  which  require  leisure  and  reflection.”  Again  he  says:  “Art  Is  in  danger  of  losing  its  character 

as  a great  intellectual  utterance;  and  in  working,  my  efforts  have  been  actuated  by  a desire  to  establish  correspond- 
ence between  them  and  noble  poetry  and  great  literature.” 

He  has,  indeed,  chosen  several  of  his  subjects  from  literature.  Among  these  are  “Ophelia,”  “Paolo  and 
Francesca,”  “Una  and  the  Knight  of  the  Red  Cross,”  all  of  which  breathe  the  real  spirit  of  romance.  He  has  taken 
some  subjects  from  the  Bible,  and  many  from  the  great  Greek  myths.  His  “Orpheus  and  Eurydice”  is  a poetical 
and  powerful  version  of  the  well-known  story,  treated  in  a most  original  manner.  Such  pictures  as  “The  Building 


of  the  Ark,”  “The  Spirit  of  Christianity,”  “The  Good  Samaritan,”  “The  Death  of  Abel,”  “The  Birth  of  Eve,” 
show  a marked  Italian  influence;  but  they  lack  that  great  quality  of  personality  which  is  the  hall-mark  of  original 
genius. 

In  contrast  with  these  pictures,  may  fairly  be  placed  the  “Eve”  series.  They  are  exponents  of  that  more  re- 
fined and  delicate  use  of  symbolism  which  is  characteristic  of  Watts’  greater  work.  The  first  is  called  “Creation 
of  Eve.”  The  figure  rises  toward  Heaven.  It  is  meant  to  represent  the  type  of  noble  womanhood  rejoicing 
in  praise  of  her  creation.  The  dove,  lilies  and  roses  are  at  her  feet.  Hidden  among  the  lilies  there  coils  a serpent. 
The  second  of  the  trilogy  represents  “Eve’s  Fall.”  The  third  and  finest  of  the  series  is  “Eve  Repentant.”  The 
agony  of  remorse  is  perfectly  shown  in  the  pose  of  the  figure,  although  the  face  is  hidden,  and  even  in  a photograph 


CARDINAL  MANNING. 

the  glorious  color  of  the  hair  is  suggested.  This  picture  of  “Eve  Repentant,”  and  another  called  “The  Goddesses 
Three,”  are  good  examples  of  the  way  in  which  Watts  surrounds  his  figures  with  a veiled  atmosphere,  in  which, 
nevertheless,  although  the  outlines  are  defined,  the  colors  fall  into  each  other  in  perfect  harmony.  This  veil  adds 
a mystery  and  charm  to  his  subject.  In  matters  of  technique,  Mr.  Watts  holds  that  in  putting  on  colors,  there 
should  never  be  anything  like  smear  in  painting;  and  edge,  however  soft  and  delicate,  should  be  distinct  and  clear. 
After  each  painting  the  color  should  be  allowed  to  dry  thoroughly,  and  not  be  retouched  until  it  is  quite  hard. 

In  regard  to  working  from  models  directly,  Mr.  Watts  believes  that  this  method  is  destructive  to  pure  imagina- 
tive work.  He  has  endeavored  to  master  the  source  of  the  impression  of  beauty  made  on  him.  Mrs.  Barrington, 


his  pupil,  says : “He  has  drawn  careful  studies  in  order  to  find  out  precisely  what  particular  variation  from  the 

ordinary  proportion  has  produced  on  his  mind  the  effect  of  uncommon  beauty;  but  he  has  never  inserted  an  actual 
imitation  of  face  or  form  directly  into  an  imaginative  work.” 

Some  mention  must  be  made  of  Mr.  Watts’  work  in  sculpture.  The  best  known  example  is  his  colossal  eques- 
trian statue  called  “Energy,”  which  for  many  years  could  be  seen  in  his  garden  in  London.  This  figure,  like  his 
paintings,  is  symbolical,  but  admits  of  several  interpretations.  Those  who  realize  best  the  difficulties  of  making 
great  equestrian  statues  have  paid  due  tribute  to  the  sculptor  who  has  succeeded  in  this  arduous  task.  Mr. 
Watts  has  completed  also,  with  equal  perseverance,  another  great  equestrian  statue,  that  of  Hugh  Lupus,  the 
partly  mythical  ancestor  of  the  Duke  of  Westminster;  a colossal  statue  of  the  late  Lord  Tennyson;  a notable  re- 
cumbent figure  for  the  tomb  of  Bishop  Lonsdale  in  Lichfield  Cathedral;  a second  recumbent  figure  of  the  Marquis 
of  Lothian;  a monument  to  the  late  Thomas  Cholmondelly,  Esq.  The  bust  of  Clytie  is  too  well  known  to  speak  of 
at  length.  His  bent  toward  plastic  art  may  be  noticed  in  several  of  his  paintings,  especially  in  “The  Rider  on  the 
White  Horse.” 

To  Watts,  breathing  deep  the  spirit  of  broad  humanity,  it  was  a matter  of  regret  that  so  many  pictures  are  now 
owned  by  private  collectors  and  kept  in  galleries  to  which  the  public  is  not  admitted.  That  his  own  ideas  on  such 
matters  were  far  different  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  he  kept  many  of  his  originals,  and  copies  of  his  most  cele- 
brated pictures,  in  his  own  gallery,  to  which  the  public  is  freely  admitted  once  or  twice  each  week. 

H is  humane  interest  in  the  lives  of  the  people  was  well  known;  he  always  showed  himself  eager  to  help 
them,  not  only  with  the  gifts  of  money,  but  by  personal  devotion.  “For  he  is  the  rich  man  in  whom  the  people  are 
rich,  and  how  to  give  all  access  to  the  masterpieces  of  art  and  nature  is  the  problem  of  civilization.”  The  solution 
of  this  problem  was  the  earnest  purpose  of  Mr.  Watts’  life.  Characteristic  of  his  generosity  were  his  magnifi- 
cent gifts  of  twenty-one  pictures  to  the  Tate  Gallery  of  London;  of  portraits  to  the  National  Gallery;  a picture  to 
Germany,  and  one  to  Italy;  and  of  a replica  of  “Love  and  Life”  to  America  for  the  White  House.  It  is  little  to 
say  that  Watts  was  a born  artist — a genius — with  the  talent  and  industry  to  teach  himself.  He  was  that  and  far 
more  besides;  other  and  greater  things  lay  in  his  own  character.  His  mind  was  filled  with  noble  conceptions, 
and  his  heart  beat  high  with  a message  to  his  fellow-man.  He  set  forth  a noble  ideal,  and  he  also  lived  it;  he  has 
worked  out  the  passion  and  power  that  lay  dormant  in  his  soul. 

A great  character  then  has  been  the  ground  of  all  his  work;  it  was  his  good  fortune — and  the  world’s — that 
he  was  born  with  the  talent  of  making  his  message  clear,  and  of  proclaiming  it  in  beautiful  form.  It  is  true  that 
he  was  inclined  now  and  then  to  preach  too  much,  and  in  his  effort  to  tell  his  message  to  all  he  sometimes  chose  his 
topics  ill.  This  criticism  may  well  be  applied  to  paintings  like  “Minotaur”  and  “Mammon,”  ugly  and  incongruous 
subjects.  But  happily  these  instances  are  few  and  inconspicuous,  and  are,  moreover,  examples  of  his  whole  aim — 
to  paint,  as  he  himself  says,  “not  things — but  ideas.”  Mr.  Watts  has  had  to  labor  hard  for  his  greatness,  rising 
with  the  sun  and  laying  down  his  brush  only  with  its  setting — even  then  to  be  pondering  in  the  twilight  new 
thoughts  for  the  work  of  the  morrow. 

In  the  new  Order  of  Merit  which  King  Edward  VII.  created  at  his  coronation,  Mr.  Watts  had  a conspicuous 
place.  But  his  fame  needs  no  such  token  to  render  it  secure;  nor  could  the  knighthood  and  barony  which,  report 
declares,  were  more  than  once  urged  upon  him  in  times  past,  shed  new  lustre  upon  his  name. 

His  power  rests  upon  a more  enduring  basis;  and  when  the  remainder  of  his  works  are  given  to  the  nation,  as 
he  wished  them  to  be  at  his  death,  that  power  is  bound  to  be  one  of  increasing  force  and  helpfulness. 

“Give  honour  unto  Luke  Evangelist; 

For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 

Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and  pray. 

Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the  mist 
Of  devious  symbols;  but  soon  having  wist 
How  sky- — breadth  and  field — silence  and  this  day 
Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way. 

She  looked  through  these  to  God  and  was  God’s  priest.” 


LOVE 


TRIUMPHANT 


Swinburne 


LOVE  TRIUMPHANT 


T AM  that  which  began; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll ; 

Out  of  me  God  and  man; 

I am  equal  and  whole ; 

God  changes,  and  man  and  them  bodily;  I am  the  Soul. 

I am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 

As  my  soul  in  thee  saith ; 

Give  thou  as  I gave  thee. 

Thy  Life-blood  and  breath ; 

Green  leaves  of  thy  labour,  white  flowers  of  thy  thought, 
and  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 


1 


TIME,  DEATH  AND  JUDGMENT 


Ecclesiastes 


TIME,  DEATH  AND  JUDGMENT 


'T^I^HATSOEVER  thy  hand  lindeth  to  do, 
do  It  with  thy  might ; for  there  is  no 
work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom, 
in  the  grave,  whither  thou  goest.” 


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UNA  AND  THE  RED  CROSS  KNIGHT 

Edmund  Spenser 


UNA  AND  THE  RED  CROSS  KNIGHT 


\ GENTLE  Knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  en  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde, 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  remaine. 
The  cruell  markes  of  many  a bloody  fielde  ; 

Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield. 

His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 

As  much  disdayning  to  the  curbe  to  yield  : 

Full  jolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 

As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters  fitt. 


And  on  his  brest  a bloodie  Crosse  he  bore, 

The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 

For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore. 
And  dead,  as  living,  ever  him  ador’d  : 

Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor’d. 

For  soveraine  hope  which  in  his  helpe  he  had. 
Right  faithfull  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word ; 

But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad ; 

Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad. 

A lovely  Ladie  rode  him  faire  beside. 

Upon  a lowly  asse  more  white  then  snow. 

Yet  she  much  whiter;  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low; 

And  over  all  a blacke  stole  shee  did  throw: 

As  one  that  inly  mournd,  so  was  she  sad. 

And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow ; 

Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had. 

And  by  her,  in  a line,  a milkewhite  lambe  she  lad. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH 


Margaret  Deland 


LOVE  AND  DEATH 


A LAS ! that  man  must  see 
Love,  before  Death  ! 

Else  they  content  might  be 
With  their  short  breath: 

Aye  glad  when  the  pale  sun 
Showed  restless  Day  was  done, 

And  endless  Rest  begun ! 

Glad  when  with  strong,  cool  hand 
Death  clasped  their  own. 

And  with  a strange  command 
Hushed  every  moan : 

Glad  to  have  finished  pain. 

And  labor  wrought  in  vain. 

Blurred  by  Sin’s  deepening  stain. 

But  Love’s  insistent  voice 
Bids  self  to  flee  : — 

“Live  that  I may  rejoice; 

Live  on  for  me!” 

So,  for  Love’s  cruel  mind. 

Men  fear  this  Rest  to  find. 

Nor  know  great  Death  is  kind! 


HOPE 


^"T^O  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite  ; 

To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night; 
To  defy  power  which  seems  omnipotent ; 

To  love,  and  bear;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates; 
Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent; 

This  * * * * * is  to  be 

Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free ; 

This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory  ! 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


Browning 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


T WAS  ever  a fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last  1 

I would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes  and  forbore. 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 

No!  Let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers. 
The  heroes  of  old. 

Bear  the  brunt,  in  a minute  pay  glad  life’s  arrears 
Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave. 

The  black  minute’s  at  end. 

And  the  elements  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave. 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 

Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a peace  out  ol  pain. 
Then  a light,  then  thy  breast, 

O thou  soul  of  my  soul ! I shall  clasp  thee  again. 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


THE  THREE  GODDESSES 


Tennyson 


THE  THREE  GODDESSES 


XT  was  the  deep  midnoon  ; one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.  Then  to  the  bower  they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 

Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel. 

Lotos  and  lilies ; and  a wind  arose. 

And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine. 

This  way  and  that,  in  many  a wild  festoon 

Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 

With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro’  and  thro’. 


IRIS 


T IKE  fiery  clouds,  that  flush  with  ruddy  gl 
Or  Iris,  gliding  through  the  purple  air  ; 
When  loosely  girt  her  dazzling  mantle  flows. 
And  ’gainst  the  sun  in  arching  colors  glow.” 


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EVE  REPENTANT 


Lionel  Johnson 


EVE  REPENTANT 


' I ^HE  dew  of  tears  is  on  her  face, 

Her  wounded  heart  takes  yet  its  hll 
Ot  desolation  and  disgrace. 

God  still  is  God ! And  through  Ciod  she 
Foreknows  her  jov  to  be. 


SUMMER  DAWN 


William  Morris 


SUMMER  DAWN 


^ I 'HE  summer  night  waneth,  the  morning  light  slips 
Faint  and  gray  ’twixt  the  leaves  of  the  aspen, 

betwixt  the  cloud-bars, 

That  are  patiently  waiting  there  for  the  dawn : 

Patient  and  colourless,  though  Heaven’s  gold 
Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 

Far  out  in  the  meadows,  above  the  young  corn. 

The  heavy  elms  wait,  and  restless  and  cold 
The  uneasy  wind  rises;  the  roses  are  dun; 

Through  the  long  twilight  they  pray  for  the  dawn. 


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ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 


Robert  Browning 


ORPHEUS  AND  EURYDICE 


T)  UT  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the  eyes,  the  brow  ! 
Let  them  once  more  absorb  me  ! One  look  now 
Will  lap  me  round  forever,  not  to  pass 
Out  of  its  light,  though  darkness  lie  beyond  : 

Hold  me  but  safe  again  within  the  bond 

Of  one  immortal  look ! All  woe  that  was. 
Forgotten,  and  all  terrors  that  may  be. 

Defied, — no  past  is  mine,  no  future  : look  at  me  ! 


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ARIADNE 


Charles  Lamb 


ARIADNE 


I "'HE  clouds  are  blackening,  the  storm  threatening, 
And  even  the  forest  maketh  a moan; 

Billows  are  breaking,  the  damsel’s  heart  aching. 

Thus  by  herself  she  singeth  alone 
Weeping  right  plenteously. 

The  world  is  empty,  the  heart  is  dead  surely. 

In  this  world  plainly  all  seemeth  amiss. 


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LITTLE  RED  RIDING  HOOD 


Old  Myth 


LITTLE  RED  RIDING- 

HOOD 


^ I 'HE  story  of  Red  Riding-Hood  who  was  swallowed 
with  her  Grandmother  by  the  wolf,  till  they  came 
out  safe  and  sound  when  the  hunter  cut  open  the  sleep- 
ing beast,  is  a myth  that  has  different  versions,  such  as 
Jonah  and  the  whale  in  the  Bible,  and  Tom  Thumb 
“who  was  swallowed  by  the  cow  and  came  out  unhurt,” 
and  the  kindred  Russian  story  of  Vasilissa  the  Beautiful. 
All  these  refer  to  the  alternate  swallowing  and  casting 
forth  of  Day  by  Night,  which  is  often  figured  as  a wolf 


or  sea-monster. 


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A BACCHANAL 


John  Keats 


A BACCHANAL 


TT  THENCE  came  ye,  merry  Damsels?  Whence  came  ye? 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 

Why  have  ye  left  your  howers  desolate. 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate? — 

‘We  follow  Bacchus!  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A conquering  1 

Bacchus,  young  Bacchus ! good  or  ill  betide, 

We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide:  — 

Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy  1 ’ 

“Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs?  Whence  came  ye? 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 

Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 
Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft?  — 

‘For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree; 

For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms. 

And  cold  mushrooms ; 

For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth  ; 

Great  God  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth  1 — 

Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  mad  minstrelsy  1 ’ ” 


SIR  GALAHAD 


Tennyson 


SIR  GALAHAD 


TV  /fY  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 
My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 

My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 

The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 

The  splinter’d  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel ; 

They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists. 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands. 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies’  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 
On  whom  their  favours  fall ! 

For  them  I battle  till  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall ; 

But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow’d  in  crypt  and  shrine; 

I never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden’s  hand  in  mine. 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam. 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I fair  thro’  faith  and  prayer 
A virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  thro’  the  mountain-walls 
A rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up  and  shakes  and  falls. 

Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod. 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear : 

“O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on  1 the  prize  is  near.” 

So  pass  I hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm’d  I ride,  whate’er  betide. 

Until  I find  the  Holy  Grail. 


OPHELIA 


Shakespeare 


OPHELIA 


^ I "'HERE  is  a willow  grows  aslant  the  brook, 

That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream ; 
Therewith  fantastic  garlands  did  she  make 
Of  crow-flowers,  nettles,  daisies,  and  long  purples. 
There  on  the  pendent  boughs  her  coronet  weeds 
Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver  broke; 

When  down  her  weedy  trophies,  and  herself. 

Fell  in  the  weeping  brook.  Her  clothes  spread  wide; 
And,  mermaid-like,  a while  they  bore  her  up: 

Which  time,  she  chanted  snatches  of  old  tunes; 

As  one  incapable  of  her  own  distress. 

Or  like  a creature  native  and  indu’d 

Unto  that  element:  but  longer  could  not  be. 

Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their  drink. 

Pull’d  the  poor  wretch  from  her  melodious  lay 
To  muddy  death. 


\ 


4' 

J4 


:-+jc 


THE  RIDER  ON  THE  WHITE  HORSE 


Revelations 


THE  RIDER  ON  THE 
WHITE  HORSE 


ND  I saw  when  the  Lamb  opened  one  of  the  seals, 


and  I heard,  as  it  were  the  noise  of  thunder,  one 
of  the  four  beasts  saying,  “ Come  and  see.” 

And  I saw,  and  behold  a white  horse;  and  he  that 
sat  on  him  had  a bow ; and  a crown  was  given  unto 
him : and  he  went  forth  conquering,  and  to  conquer. 


iWmrMh'i'S. 


DEATH 


CROWNING  INNOCENCE 


Whitman 


DEATH  CROWNING  INNOCENCE 


\ T the  last  tenderly, 

From  the  walls  of  the  powerful  fortress’ d house, 

Let  me  glide  noiselessly  forth  ; 

With  the  key  of  softness  unlock  the  locks — with 
a whisper. 

Set  ope  the  doors,  O soul. 

Tenderly — be  not  impatient, 

(Strong  is  your  hold,  O mortal  flesh. 

Strong  is  your  hold,  O love.  ) 


PAOLO  AND  FRANCESCA 


Dante 


(Charles  Eliot  Norton’s  Translation) 


PAOLO  AND  FRANCESCA 


A FTER  I had  heard  my  Teacher  name  the  dames  of  eld  and  the  cavaliers,  pity 
^ ^ overcame  me,  and  I was  well-nigh  bewildered.  I began : “ Poet,  willingly  would 
I speak  with  those  two  that  go  together,  and  seem  to  be  so  light  upon  the  wind.” 
And  he  to  me : “ Thou  shalt  see  when  they  are  nearer  to  us,  and  do  thou  then  pray 
them  by  that  love  which  leads  them,  and  they  will  come.”  Soon  as  the  wind  sways 
them  toward  us,  I lifted  up  my  voice ; “ O wearied  souls,  come  to  speak  with  us,  if 
Another  deny  it  not.” 

As  doves,  called  by  desire,  with  wings  open  and  steady,  come  through  the  air 
borne  by  their  will  to  their  sweet  nest,  these  issued  from  the  troop  where  Dido  is, 
coming  to  us  through  the  malign  air,  so  strong  was  the  compassionate  cry. 

“O  living  creature,  gracious  and  benign,  that  goest  through  the  black  air  visiting 
us  who  stained  the  world  blood-red,  if  the  King  of  the  universe  were  a friend  we 
would  pray  Him  for  thy  peace,  since  thou  hast  pity  on  our  perverse  ill.  Of  what  it 
pleases  thee  to  hear,  and  what  to  speak,  we  will  hear  and  we  will  speak  to  you,  while 
the  wind,  as  now,  is  hushed  for  us.  The  city  where  I was  born  sits  upon  the  sea- 
shore, where  the  Po,  with  his  followers,  descends  to  have  peace.  Love,  which  quickly 
lays  hold  on  gentle  heart,  seized  this  one  for  the  fair  person  that  was  taken  from  me, 
and  the  mode  still  hurts  me.  Love,  which  absolves  no  loved  one  from  loving,  seized 
me  for  the  pleasing  of  him  so  strongly  that,  as  thou  seest,  it  does  not  even  now 
abandon  me.  Love  brought  us  to  one  death.  Cain  awaits  him  who  quenched  our 
life.”  These  words  were  borne  to  us  from  them. 

“We  were  reading  one  day,  for  delight,  of  Lancelot,  how  love  constrained  him. 
We  were  alone  and  without  any  suspicion.  Many  times  that  reading  urged  our  eyes, 
and  took  the  color  from  our  faces,  but  only  one  point  was  it  that  overcame  us.  When 
we  read  of  the  longed-for  smile  being  kissed  by  such  a lover,  this  one,  who  never 
shall  be  divided  from  me,  kissed  my  mouth  all  trembling.  Gallehaut  was  the  book, 
and  he  who  wrote  it.  That  day  we  read  no  farther  in  it.” 

While  the  one  spirit  said  this,  the  other  was  so  weeping  that  through  pity  I 
swooned  as  if  I had  been  dying,  and  fell  as  a dead  body  falls. 


“FOR  HE  HAD  GREAT  POSSESSIONS” 


St.  Mark 


“FOR  HE  HAD  GREAT 
POSSESSIONS” 


ND  when  He  had  gone  forth  into  the  way,  there 


came  one  running,  and  kneeled  to  Him,  and  asked 
H im,  “Good  Master,  what  shall  I do  that  I may  inherit 
eternal  life?” 

And  Jesus  said  unto  him,  “Why  callest  thou  Me 
good?  There  is  none  good  but  one,  that  is,  God.” 

Then  Jesus  beholding  him  loved  him,  and  said  unto 
him,  “One  thing  thou  lackest;  go  thy  way,  sell  what- 
soever thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  thou  shalt 
have  treasure  in  heaven : and  come,  take  up  the  cross. 


and  follow  Me.” 


And  he  was  sad  at  that  saying,  and  went  away 
grieved  ; for  he  had  great  possessions. 


DIANA  AND  ENDYMION 


F LETCHER 


DIANA  AND  ENDYMION 


“H  ow  the  pale  Phcebe,  hunting  in  a grove, 

First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 

H ow  she  conveyed  him  softly  in  a sleep, 

H is  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmos,  where  she  stoops  each  night. 
Gilding  the  mountains  with  her  brother’s  light. 
To  kiss  her  sweetest.” 


4 


V,  ' ' 

" • 

V ' ' DAPHNE 

t 

*•  • K.  Vernon 


DAPHNE 


QTILL  is  the  noon,  the  forest  holds  its  hreath, 
These  immemorial  oaks  and  beeches  wait 
The  druid  wind  which  comes  to  consecrate 
Their  voices  to  its  runes  of  life  and  death. 

Quiet  is  over  all,  its  song  the  linnet  stays ; 

Yet  where  the  wooded  aisle  ends  in  the  glade 
And  passing  clouds  drop  gifts  of  sun  and  shade 
Upon  the  grass,  a faery  birch  tree  sways. 

We  say  “a  tree,” — but  should  a poet  look 
Upon  this  miracle  of  rhythmic  grace, 

Perchance  he’d  know  the  shining  limbs  and  face 
Of  Daphne  mirrored  in  the  adoring  brook. 


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